


No, I suppose not

by SilkySatan



Series: Sometimes Stiles is sad [5]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Depression, I don't know, M/M, Mental Illness, No fluff at the end, Peter is a sweetheart, Sad, Self Harm, Self harm?, Stiles is depressed, i guess, sorry - Freeform, stiles is sad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-25
Updated: 2016-02-25
Packaged: 2018-05-23 03:44:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 650
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6103741
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SilkySatan/pseuds/SilkySatan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Everything doesn't always end nicely.</p>
            </blockquote>





	No, I suppose not

**Author's Note:**

> Trigger warning for self harm. I don't know if this counts but better to err on the side of caution.

Stiles stared at his pale, mole-covered thighs blankly. He lifted a hand to delicately trace lines between the spots. The water sloshed around him as he shifted his weight, bringing one thigh up into the cold air of the bathroom to better see the marks gracing his skin. He had gotten in the bath at least two hours ago; needless to say, the water had gone cold. He ran his hand gently up and down his leg, taking note of every sensation. He felt so very mortal. His skin tickled a little, and he watched the skin dimple easily as he pressed on one of his freckles. He dug a nail softly into his skin and dragged it between two moles, not hard enough to break the skin. He watched the pretty pink line bloom against his white skin. It was so easy to damage this fragile body.  
   

“Stiles, are you okay?” He heard Peter call from the bathroom door. He hadn’t heard him come in. He had been much too entranced with his own delicate thigh.  
   

“I suppose I am,” he said softly, digging the nail into himself a little harder.  
   

“You don’t really look like you’re okay, Stiles. You’ve been in here for almost three hours. It’s one in the morning. I think you should come to bed, love,” Peter suggested, reaching a warm palm out to rest on the back of Stiles’ neck. Stiles lifted the hand that wasn’t on his thigh up to his neck. Cold water dripped from his fingers and ran down his wrist. He pushed Peter’s hand away slowly, making eye contact as he did it.  
   

“I’m fine, Peter. I’ll be in bed in a minute, okay?” he sighed exasperatedly. Peter stood up, deciding to take a hint. He didn’t close the door behind him.  
   

Stiles went back to staring at where his skin was giving way to his short thumb nail. When he pulled his hand away, blood swelled in a neat crescent and ran down his thigh in a thin tendril towards his pelvis. He licked his thumb, tasting the familiar metallic tang of his own blood. He watched the droplet sink towards his right hip until it met with the water, blossoming outwards like smoke from a cigarette, before he stood up. He looked through the open door and down the darkened hallway with trepidation. He unplugged the tub and grabbed his towel, drying everything but his feet and his right thigh, where the blood was. He draped the towel around his shoulders and grabbed a few squares of toilet paper to wipe up the blood. He tossed the wad into the toilet when he was finished and grabbed a band-aid from under the sink, sticking it on neatly before finally drying off his thigh. He hung the towel back up and grabbed his bundle of clothes, joining Peter in their bedroom. He tossed his clothes in the hamper and rooted through his drawers for a pair of pajama pants. He never wore them, so they weren’t particularly easy to find. The pair he did find was thick flannel, a bit warm for late spring in California, but he didn’t mind.  
   

“Stiles, won’t you be hot in those?” Peter questioned absently, setting aside his book to watch Stiles get dressed for bed.  
   

“No. I’m cold,” he responded in a clipped tone before crawling into bed.  
   

“Probably because you spent two hours in a cold bath. I can smell your blood, you know,” Peter said casually, as though it was a normal topic of conversation. Stiles rolled over and turned off the lamp, ignoring what Peter had said.

“Why did you do that, Stiles?”  
   

“It was pretty. I liked the way it hurt. I don’t know. Does it have to make sense?”  
   

“No, I suppose not. When I asked earlier you said you were okay. Are you?”  
   

“No, I suppose not.”


End file.
